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I remember one day in particular during the advent of the flying bombs (around 1942/3). That morning we slept under a Morison shelter, having just come in from next doors concrete shelter that we shared with our neighbours. It was all quiet. My mother and brother were there, but my father was not with us as he was in the Special Police Force.

At 6am, we suddenly heard this chugging noise. It stopped and we realised it was a V1 flying bomb and it was coming down — but we had no idea where. The rushing noise got nearer and nearer and we huddled under the shelter. There was a huge explosion as the bomb had landed on a nearby pub in Twickenham. We were worried about my father, but he did eventually come home that evening after helping the casualties.

We resumed our normal disorganised daily life. That evening, we heard the same noise very close to us. Again the bomb landed on another pub nearby. This time it was 6.00pm, so the pub was full of people. My father was there digging out the bodies of people he knew — it was such a waste of young lives. It was awful too that they bombed my father’s two favourite pubs of all places and on the same day.

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